Elegy to Kerem Shalom (Translated from the Hebrew By Judy Ronen) The PDF of the arrived yesterday. A few hours earlier, the booklets of the pictures were received. After seven years of research, writing, and editing, the Kerem Shalom book is on the home stretch. Usually, When the PDF arrives, I can smell the print, and years of toil suddenly turn into a book. A book that can be held, and you can see if the title is suitable: Out of Consensus: Kibbutz Kerem Shalom 1968 – 1978, published by the respected publishing house Kinneret – Zmora - Dvir. And now what? And how? And why and what for? My Kerem Shalom, our Kerem Shalom, our beloved Kibbutz, is now deserted, surrounded by a brokendown wall. Just three and a half weeks ago, on our way to the Rosh Hashana family gathering at Sde Nitzan, we turned right, Raya and I, onto one of the well-known paths leading to Kibbutz Nir Oz, in order to return to Oded Lifshitz, the original photographs of the Rafah area struggle in 1972. Oded welcomed us on the path in front of his home, the same path surrounding the Kibbutz. He was standing there, a tall, slim man, around 83 years old, talking in a hoarse voice about one of the most significant undertakings of his life that was recounted in these photographs: the struggle against the eviction of the North Sinai Bedouin from their homes. And although we knew Nir Oz, we didn't realize, even on this visit, that his home was just 700 meters from the border. Did this fact hold any significance before last Saturday? Our room, too, Raya's and mine at Kerem Shalom, was also situated 100 meters from the border. And now, it seems that Oded and Yochi, his wife, the photographer, are being held as hostages in Gaza. That, at least, is what we want to hope because the alternative is the most terrible of all. Alex Dancyg is also in Gaza. Karolina Jakowenko in Poland immediately felt that something was amiss. Since last Saturday morning, she has been sending WhatsApp messages to find out what happened to him. She was his guest on the Kibbutz while studying at Yad Vashem. It was up to me to gradually pass on to her the terrible snippets of information that were slowly filtering through. "We know nothing." "We have heard nothing." "He is not…" "possibly…" "Now it has been confirmed: He is there". Alex is in Gaza. Alex of the Israeli youth delegations to Poland. Alex of the guidebooks for the ghetto tours. A Polish Jew my age, who came to us a kid in the so-called "Gomulka immigrant wave," a real descendant of a long line of smart Polish intellectuals who could quote Adam Mickiewicz and Juliusz Slowacki but could also manage the fields irrigation system of Kibbutz Nir Oz. Someone who has been involved for years in the study of the wonderful Polish Jewry that was completely eradicated. Now Alex is in Gaza. Vae victis Alex, vae Karolina, vae nobis. But my brother Arnon (68) remained at Sde Nitzan. He won't heed the insistent requests of his son Yotam to evacuate to the north. Yotam, a press photographer with "Walla" News, was one of the first to arrive on the scene and has seen a thing or two over the last few days. Now, Yotam is taking a short break from the terrible scenes, spending time with his partner and their two young daughters. Arnon is staying put. He has 12 farm workers from Thailand taking cover in the shelters he brought to the farm. He is there to take care of their needs, to open the store for them, to talk to them, and even to go out to pick the green stems when there is a break in the rocket fire. By the way, Arnon himself has no mamad ("safe room") in his home because Moshav Sde Nitzan is supposedly situated outside the danger zone, according to some stupid calculation. Tell that, for instance, to the two Thai workers who were killed last week in Moshav Talmei Eliyahu, just two kilometers from Sde Nitzan. Now, Arnon and Judy are building a mamad at their own expense. There are lots like them in Tel Aviv – very profitable for the building contractors. Not in Ashkelon and not in Sde Nitzan. Arnon is there. On his watch. And what is with me? And with Kerem Shalom? On the Shabbat of Rosh Hashana, Arnon and Judy, together with Yotam and myself, drove to Kerem Shalom to photograph the wall that now stands about eighty meters from the window of what was our room on the Kibbutz. It is supposed to be the final photo in the book. This very same wall that today blocks the view of the desert that we loved so much, preventing those living in the house from seeing the amazing autumn sunsets. Arnon said it would be fine; we can come on Shabbat. He spoke to the Civil Kibbutz commander, who said they were obviously religious but tolerant towards the secular public. You can visit on Shabbat. So, we went. Yotam took pictures. Some of the wall, some of a tired, reflective historian, and others of the house's window, what was once ours and where new settlers now live. And I thought, what was I supposed to believe. Once upon a time, in the seventies, we would walk westwards across the sand and cross the border whenever we fancied. Our kitchen manager in the Kibbutz would economize by shopping in the market in Gaza. We would take our visitors from England to a fish restaurant in El Arish. Ali, from Khan Junis, who was in charge of the building group of the kibbutz youth, was an honorary member of the Kibbutz, and on the golden beaches of Northern Sinai, Dikla, and Sheikh Zowaiid, we would bathe naked. And today, what? On that same Shabbat of Rosh Hashana, we didn't meet the Civil commander of Kerem Shalom because he is religious, but now we have met him on the web. According to what was written, he managed a heroic battle last Saturday to defend the Kibbutz. Two of his civil fighting team, Yedidia Raziel and Moshe Vitzan, were killed in the fight. Blessed be their memory. There were also fighters in our old and beautiful Kerem Shalom, Kerem of the seventies. There were nine combat officers, about ten NCOs, paratroopers, artillery, and anti-aircraft personnel. As much as we were left-wing, we actively participated in all Israeli wars: The War of Attrition, Yom Kippur, Lebanon. Yiftach was among the first to cross the Suez Canal, Gilad fought in Ismailia, Sinai Peter in the Golan Heights, and I in Suez. And we paid a price: in 1969, we buried Ze'evik Lavi, who was killed in the Jordan Rift Valley, at Kibbutz Ruhama. We wept in 1970 for our beloved red-headed Ehud Abramovitz, who was killed in one of the military positions at the Suez Canal. In 1972, we buried Avner Rand, who was killed during his military service. None of them were buried at Kerem Shalom because we didn't establish a cemetery despite our achievements during the first ten years at Kerem Shalom. And to this, it should be added: we were never pacifists – when our Adam Seligman refused to be drafted as a conscientious objector, we bowed our heads before him and told him (in 1975) that we were sorry but "not in our Kibbutz." And Adam accepted the verdict, went away, then returned to us for a time before becoming a wellknown Professor of Religion. And despite this, we were and remain affiliated with the left wing. We didn't see a contradiction between a long stint of reserve duty (sometimes up to ninety days) in the paratroopers or the armored corps reconnaissance units and the struggle for peace and meetings with Palestinian friends from the Occupied Territories and from Gaza. We looked the occupation in the eye and said: this is not us. We are swimming against the current. Wherever we saw the buds of fascism, even back in the seventies, we were there to say "no further." When we had to stand alone, we stood alone and said no, not us; we're out of the consensus. Let us not be confused: one thing is unity, solidarity, and fighting during times of hardship, such as what is being seen right now, and another thing is to dare to go against the flow at times when it is possible and to search for and find other paths. The history of Kerem Shalom of the seventies proves both. But Kerem Shalom's path was, as in the words of the poem "The Road Not Taken." Except for some rare moments of breakthrough, once with the Egyptians in 1977, once with the Jordanians and the Palestinians in 1993, the other road was the one chosen: the road of occupation and of settlements, the route of hate and arrogance, the road of moral corruption, and above all: the road of force. And when the path of more power was ineffective, the way of even greater force was taken. Even now. And if there was a sin that we had committed, we, the people of the old Kerem Shalom, it wasn't the sin of love and friendship and not even the sin of the struggle for the democratic and peaceful nature of our State. We committed only one sin: we didn't stay at Kerem Shalom or some other place together, building a new consensus that isn't the path of force but the path of human beings. Go in peace, beloved old Kerem Shalom. Maybe you will grow back, more beautiful than ever. Let it be. Oded and Yochi Alex Dancyg Arnon and Yotam Judy and Arnon Kerem Shalom center Passover, Eighties Five O'clock coffee, 1968 Carnation glasshouse Potatoes harvesting On the front of the mango plantation Shmuel Oren, Kerem Shalom's activist goes to prison, 1975 Rosh Hashana, 1976 

1 Haaretz Jan 5, 2024 We know how to Die Here; The Israeli Government Should Teach us how to Live Prof. Avihu Ronen has just published a book looking back on his 11 years there, and explains why the kibbutz's ethos is more relevant than ever today Ofer Aderet Jan 25, 2024 Historian Prof. Avihu Ronen gets angry whenever he's asked if he has come to his senses after the October 7 massacre in southern Israel. "I don't feel like someone who has to reverse his positions and apologize," he says. "What do I have to come to my senses from? From trying to establish a kibbutz on the border of the Gaza Strip? From settling the Negev and fulfilling a national mission? From fighting for a democratic Israel? From fulfilling the ancient commandment 'Seek peace and pursue it'? 'We know how to die here. The Israeli government should teach us how to live' "The people who need to come to their senses are those running the country who, after so many wars, have regrettably made our world far worse than it was before," he adds. "This miserable government that has sacrificed every good part of society and the beautiful country that we built. The traitorous, renegade government." Fifty-five years ago, at the age of 20, Ronen was one of the pioneers of Kerem Shalom – an anarchist and radical kibbutz whose members went against the grain and were among the first to demonstrate against the settlements and in favor of a Palestinian state. He left it a decade later, leaving behind sweet dreams and daring adventures of long-haired, bearded youths who swam naked in the kibbutz pool, used drugs, listened to hard rock music and set up a protest "settlement" on Ariel Sharon's 2 A kibbutznik in a field at Kibbutz Kerem Shalom in the 1970s.Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus" On October 7, he saw on television from his Tel Aviv home how Hamas terrorists breached the concrete wall between the kibbutz and the Gaza Strip, 120 meters (about 390 feet) from the house where he lived with his wife, Raya, in the second half of the 20th century. "The emergency defense team was heroically fighting the terrorists, preventing them from taking control. Two of its men were killed, but the kibbutz was saved," he recounts. Three days later, the edited manuscript of his new book landed on his desk, the result of years of historic research: "Out of the Consensus: Kerem Shalom, a Small and Wild Kibbutz on the Border of the Gaza Strip, 1968-1978" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir and Yad Yaari Research and Documentation Center). Ronen had to write a new foreword that referenced the current situation. "And now what? And now how? Why now and for what? My Kerem Shalom, our Kerem Shalom, the beauty and the dream, is devoid of people and the wall around it has collapsed," he wrote. Just three weeks earlier, en route to a family dinner at nearby Sde Nitzan, he had stopped at Kibbutz Nir Oz to return photographs to Oded Lifshitz that had been used in the new book. The images documented their joint struggle against Bedouin being displaced from their lands in 1972, and Oded's wife, Yocheved, had taken the photos. "Oded welcomed us on the road to his house, the kibbutz's perimeter road. He stood there, a tall, lean, 83-year-old man, speaking in a hoarse voice about one of greatest missions of his life, which was captured in these photographs," writes Ronen. No one knew at the time that the names Oded and Yocheved Lifshitz would soon be displayed on posters calling for the return of the hostages from the Gaza Strip. Yocheved was returned at the end of November, but Oded is still there. Back in the 1970s, Ronen and his comrades at the recently built kibbutz walked westward through the dunes, crossing the border as they wished. They bought food in the Gaza market. When important guests visited, they took them to a fish restaurant in El-Arish, Sinai. They would bathe naked at the golden north Sinai beaches of Dikla 3 and Sheikh Zuweid. Ali from Khan Yunis managed the kibbutz's building team and was an honorary member of the kibbutz. Ronen and his friends had Palestinian friends in Gaza. Historian Prof. Avihu Ronen.Credit: David Bachar And now what? "We were and remain leftists. We looked the occupation in the eye and said, 'This is not us.' We went against the flow. Wherever the buds of fascism appeared in the '70s, we were there to say 'No more.' When it was necessary to stand alone, we stood alone and said, 'Not us. We're not part of the consensus.' "Lest there be any confusion: unity, solidarity and fighting in times of distress – as seen in these terrible times – is one thing. But daring to go against the flow, when it's possible and necessary to seek and even find a different path, is something else. The history of Kerem Shalom in the '70s proves both these things." It's a story of failure. You led the struggles of the left after the Six-Day War, but the people did not choose your way. And on October 7, even your friends from Gaza didn't remember your youthful kindness. 4 A kibbutznik hard at work at Kerem Shalom in the 1970s. Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus." "Israel has been fighting for 75 years and we've made no progress. The situation is only getting worse. At the kibbutz, we offered an alternative. Kerem Shalom's way was, in the words of the poem, 'the road not taken.' Except for a few breakthrough moments – once with the Egyptians in 1977, and then with Jordan and the Palestinians in 1993 – the other road was always taken: the road of occupation and settlements, the road of hate and arrogance, the road of moral corruption and, above all, the road of force. Where more force was ineffective, even greater force was always applied. Even now." So where did you go wrong? "We succeeded for a while. When Pethat Rafiah was evacuated in 1982, they said, 'Kerem Shalom was right,' because we were on the right side of the Green Line. In 2005, [the disengagement] looked again like we were right. This upheaval indicated that we had read history correctly and were on the right side. But then the wheel turned again. We did not become part of the consensus. We were and remain outside of it. "If there was a sin that we, the people of the old Kerem Shalom, committed, it was not the sin of friendship with our Arab and Bedouin neighbors. Nor was it a sin to fight for the image of society and the state. Our sin was not staying there, on the kibbutz, and failing to build a new consensus that is not through the path of force but the path of people." Open gallery view Avihu Ronen was born on Kibbutz Ha'ogen in the year of Israel's independence. His father, Yaakov Rosenberg, was active in the Slovak resistance in World War II. His mother, Chajka Klinger, was active in the Jewish Fighting Organization in Poland's Bedzin Ghetto. In Israel, she suffered mental health problems and took her own life 5 when Ronen was nine, leaving Yaakov Rosenberg to raise the three children. Ronen wrote his doctoral dissertation on her and, in 2011, published his critically acclaimed book "Condemned to Life: The Diaries and Life Chajka Klinger." In 1968, Ronen was part of the Hashomer Hatzair youth movement's group which established Kerem Shalom. After his discharge from the army, where he served as an officer in the Egoz reconnaissance unit, he participated in the shaping and cohesion of the new kibbutz – which was built on land "at the end of the world," as he put it, on the border with Egypt and the Gaza Strip. The Hebrew book jacket for 'Out of the Consensus.'\ Credit: From the book 'Out of the Consensus.' These new kibbutzniks stood out in the kibbutz movement at the time. "A small and rebellious kibbutz," Ronen calls it. When Israel Goodovitch designed their dining hall as an architectural oddity, he explained to them: "You're weird people, and a weird building suits you." They were anarchists who believed in "maximum openness and blurring of the boundaries between the needs of the individual and needs of society," says Ronen, but also "Bolsheviks" as he put it, who advocated "the enforcement of uniform norms on all the members." 6 How did these two things coexist? "More than a consistency here, there was jumping between different and contradictory ideas of young people seeking their way in life – but everything was still open and permissible," he writes. Who were you and where did you come from? "We were second generation in almost every way. Second-generation Holocaust survivors. Second-generation War of Independence fighters, second-generation kibbutz founders. More than 40 percent of us were the children of survivor and/or 1948 fighters' families. In many cases, both. Kerem Shalom was initially founded by second-generation kibbutzniks who wanted to realize their parents' vision as the best way, to give it a 'new quality.' We were also the generation of wars, children who grew up with the illusion of victory in the Six-Day War and experienced firsthand the hardships of the War of Attrition and the shock of the Yom Kippur War." That familiar story of children who want to rebel against their parents. "To change the parents' ways. On the one hand, to return to a lost Eden of full collectiveness that ostensibly existed in the first days of the kibbutzim, or at least the ideal that the old kibbutzim had failed to realize. And on the other, the personal need to ease the social pressure of the collective on the individual and give them room to breathe." Kibbutz Kerem Shalom in the 1970s. Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus" There are amusing examples of how this was applied. Once, after a series of heated debates, the decision was reached that a couple who had received a wedding gift should "chose between giving the money to the kibbutz or leaving it." The idea then arose that the money should be spent on something of the couple's choosing. Thus, the kibbutz horse farm was born. 7 Another time, it was decided that every member deserved to get a stereo. "So, next to the Bedouin seating cushions and near iron beds from the metalworking shop and the plywood shelves breaking under the weight of the books, a new and sophisticated stereo popped up in every member's room," Ronen writes. A year later, the following winning formula was ratified: The kibbutz is the sole provider of the individual needs of its members. A picture emerges throughout the book of young people seeking and finding romance and eroticism in desert isolation, between the mango orchards and virgin beaches, near the Bedouin nomads. It was a local version of the American hippies or rebelling European students of that time – the 1970s. There was also politics. Kibbutz members participated in demonstrations, carrying signs such as "Strengthen [the northern city of] Kiryat Shmona, not [the West Bank settlement of] Kiryat Arba," "Palestinian self-determination will be realized" and "Demilitarize the Golan Heights in exchange for an agreement" with Syria. In 1970, they wrote to then-Defense Minister Moshe Dayan. Reading it from many years distance shows just how relevant it is today. "What kind of future are you offering us?! The future of a people living by its sword? It's possible to fight battle after battle after battle. Believe us that we contribute and will contribute all our abilities to defeat them, but the final victory in war is peace. And arms are not enough for such a victory – a peace policy is also required. In these times, we cannot be naive again. Words alone will not persuade us that we are fighting for a future in which there is another chance besides war and killing, who knows for how long." A house in Kerem Shalom in 2009, near the wall border with the Gaza Strip. Credit: Guy Reivitz Later in the '70s, they were anointed as the answer to the Gush Emunim settler movement, and "as the unshakable fortress of the radical left and its vanguard," in Ronen's words. In 1974, one of them told the Histadrut labor federation conference that the settlement policy in the territories was dangerous and "designates … the 8 entire nation to live forever by the sword. … Zionism is settlement and it is also my Zionism. But my Zionism is based on recognition of the right of self-determination of the neighboring people. God help us if we turn the Zionist value of settlement into an obstacle for peace." That same year, the radical kibbutzniks established a "peace settlement" on Ariel Sharon's farm, to protest his participation in "going up to Sebastia" (the capital of the biblical Kingdom of Israel). When the authorities tried to evict them, they replied: "We've come to settle here, just as Sharon's people are doing at Sebastia." In 1975, Gush Emunim marched on Samaria under the slogan, "Samaria is the heart of the country. So long as there is no Jewish settlement there, this wilderness will encourage divine punishment in the country's cities." In response, Kerem Shalom members demonstrated, carrying signs saying, "This is where fascism begins." Later that year, they placed piles of sand at the entrances to right-wing lawmakers' homes, with signs declaring: "Sacred sand to your heart's content. You want to die for it – we don't." Also: "A security hilltop for your enjoyment! Take it home and don't forget to die there!" "Johnny in the desert," one of the images in the book. Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus." In 1977, when a Torah scroll was brought to the yeshiva in the Sinai settlement of Yamit, the kibbutzniks stormed the ceremony and produced a sign saying "Annexation of the territories equals the sound of cannons." That same year, they published an opinion called "We're out of the consensus," against Prime Minister Menachem Begin's declaration ruling out any talks with the Palestine Liberation Organization. It stated: "We don't accept the consensus of no talks. We call for immediate recognition of Israelis and Palestinians' right to self-determination of the two peoples, their right to an independent state, and to live in peace and security." 9 Poison and atonement Ronen recounts another tale in the book that does not fit so well with the pursuit of being good neighbors. In 1976, there were confrontations between Kerem Shalom farmers and Bedouin shepherds whose herds were going on kibbutz land. The kibbutz decided to allocate potatoes to the Bedouin and give them water, but the friction continued – until one of the kibbutzniks got so fed up that they scattered rat poison, killing several of the sheep. The kibbutz members decided to pay compensation. You write that this is a "problem of reality clashing with values." Could it be that, ultimately, when it comes to your little parcel of land, reality wins? Prof. Avihu Ronen, photographed at Kibbutz Kerem Shalom a few weeks prior to the October 7 massacre. Credit: Yotam Ronen "This was a painful affair, it was really unpleasant. We felt really bad. At its core was a tension between the farmer, a person of the soil, and the nomad. Between the socialist kibbutznik who favors a brotherhood of nations, and the man who does not want his fields trampled. By the way, Kerem Shalom was not built on Arab land or on the ruins of any village. The Jewish Agency offered us several more dunams across the border, but we did not accept it." How were relations with your Arab neighbors from Gaza? "Relations were not developed enough compared to what we believed in and how we talked about it, but there were definitely different levels of relations. I had very good relations with the Arab workers with whom I worked. I arranged for them to eat in the dining hall and receive holiday gifts. Our sculptor, Aarale Ben Arieh, studied pottery in Gaza. We shopped there and went to the beach – but we didn't do enough. An idea arose, which was not pursued, to establish a Jewish-Arab kibbutz." You write about a history you were part of. That has its advantages, but also its disadvantages. How do you manage to maintain objectivity? How do you keep your distance? 10 A member of Kibbutz Kerem Shalom driving a tractor along a path in 1976. Credit: Moshe Milner/GPO "That's the classic problem: How to write with the necessary scholarship when you're part of the story, which is loaded and full of tensions. Am I speaking on behalf of the collective or myself? Am I a neutral and objective historian? I gave up the 'I' and dropped the 'myself,' and wrote in the third person – though occasionally it is 'we' and sometimes I slip in as well. It helped me not to settle accounts but to tell a story." When did you have to self-censor? "There was a lot of deliberation, but I wouldn't call it censorship. There were things I knew that I couldn't tell. For example, when I talk about people who were thrown out of the kibbutz because of drugs, I don't mention names. I also tread very carefully when discussing the effect of the sexual culture of the '70s." In the book, Ronen writes: "At Kerem Shalom, as sometimes happens in hormonallycharged communities, the men and women occasionally exchanged sexual and life partners. Sometimes this happened before a permanent partnership was formed, and sometimes, alas, it happened after children were born." A few examples enable the reader to get closer to the spirit of the times. One Saturday night, two women from the kibbutz danced naked to Beatles songs on a roof. A young couple had arrived that weekend, asking to be accepted on the spot, and got to watch the show. "We're staying here," the young man told his partner. Another time, a woman working in the laundry took all the bras and tied them into one long ribbon, which she hung in the dining hall. In addition to examining archival material, beginning with the minutes of kibbutz meetings, Ronen interviewed about 100 kibbutzniks for the book. One woman told him: "I remember finishing work in the kitchen and going to the pool with my shirt in my hands. I remember the trips to the beach near Khan Yunis, where we would spend the whole day lying naked on the beach. One Shabbat, when the boys were playing soccer on one of the lawns, we took off our shirts and sunbathed on another lawn. Another time, I went riding in the fields. I rode alone at dusk, took off my shirt and rode naked. Such a thrill." 11 A row of houses at the kibbutz, just 100 meters from the border with Gaza. Credit: Moshe Milner/GPO In 1979, Ronen left the kibbutz after 11 years. "We didn't have a bad time at Kerem Shalom. On the contrary. But it was a completely exhausting adventure. All my friends had left and I was concerned about being the 'village elder.' I didn't want to be old at the age of 30. We moved to Tel Aviv. After the exciting experience of Kerem Shalom, I couldn't live on another kibbutz," he says. Instead, Ronen chose an academic career as a historian, working at Tel-Hai Academic College and the University of Haifa. He wrote a history of the people of Israel, youth movements during the Holocaust, and about the army and ethics. In the decades since its foundation, Kerem Shalom has changed beyond all recognition. "The people living there today have nothing in common with the wild leftist kibbutz of my day," Ronen says. Today, that once-radical kibbutz even has a synagogue. When Ronen sought permission to take photographs there for his new book, a few weeks before October 7, the religious security coordinator told him that while the kibbutzniks were indeed observant, they were also tolerant toward secular Jews. "It seems that no generation was ever truly able to plant roots at the site," says Ronen, describing the numerous crises and disputes at the kibbutz since his departure and that resulted in its change in character. 12 Kibbutz members Yael and Omri sitting on the roof at Kibbutz Kerem Shalom in the 1970s. Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus." "When Hamas seized control of the Gaza Strip, the situation deteriorated again. Gilad Shalit was captured in 2006 from his outpost next to the kibbutz, and during the frequent battles and campaigns Kerem Shalom turned into a kibbutz hit by mortars, Qassam rockets and everything. A horrible concrete wall blocks the view," he concludes with sorrow. What did you feel after October 7, as a historian and as a person? "As a Holocaust researcher, I never believed in metaphysical evil. That there are 'bad' people and 'good' people. Evil is found in humanity, just as good is found. It sometimes erupts in a terrible and shocking way, as in the massacre that Hamas committed on October 7. But isn't evil now erupting among our country in the call for revenge and destruction that is sweeping the people? Isn't the life of an infant in Gaza equal to the life of an infant in Israel? These things pain me – not just at the state level but at the human level. The terrible comments flooding the media, repeating what the leaders are saying in ostensibly new military language: destroy, kill, eliminate. Before our eyes, another equally serious change is taking place – at the level of language." Was the language different when you were an officer? "As left-wing as we were, we took part in all the wars. I fought in three wars. I went to defend, block, attack, conquer. My orders never said, and I never told my soldiers, 'destroy,' 'kill,' 'eliminate.' That's horrible language, Especially for a people that suffered the terrible urge of extermination by one people on another. I'm also surprised by the deterioration over when it's acceptable to open fire. It's not true that everything is permitted in war and there are no rules. A just war doesn't mean there is no justice in war. The moment the defense minister says the restraints on collateral damage are loosened is the moment you shoot at everything that moves – whether it be a man saving people during a terrorist attack in Jerusalem, three hostages or a tank that shoots at a house with hostages in it. 13 "There are too many incidents that suggest something has changed from previous wars. It wasn't like that in my day, though there were times when I had to stop my soldiers and argue with them not to be trigger-happy. If the chief of staff has to tell soldiers not to shoot men carrying a white flag – which is the ABC of every military ethic and practice – then there's a problem. It's true that we're not fighting a regular army, it's true that their actions were barbaric, murderous and terrible. And yet that does not give us the authority to ignore the rules of war." Don't you give even a passing thought to the righteousness of the way? Your friend Oded Lifshitz, a man of peace, has been held hostage in Gaza for over 100 days already. Oded Lifshitz, right, with his wife Yocheved at their home on Kibbutz Nir Oz. The peace activists were kidnapped by Hamas on October 7 and Oded remains in captivity. Credit: Amiram Oren "Oded Lifshitz, who was kidnapped from Kibbutz Nir Oz with dozens of his friends, was not kidnapped because he was naive, because he did not know the language the Arabs were speaking. He knew. He was kidnapped because for decades our government failed to find a diplomatic solution with the people living beyond the fence. It's not that the Gazans, and certainly not Hamas, wanted this more than we did and only we prevented it. They have their own cruel and terrible part, especially now. But in the '70s, there wasn't this abysmal hatred." What's next? You write in your book, against the backdrop of the fight against the judicial coup, that you feel not everything is lost. But then came the massacre. "We must fight for the future. For what we are leaving our children and grandchildren. We once thought we would bequeath them peace. What are we bequeathing them now? Firing at Tel Aviv? We're bequeathing them a far more threatening world, which after so many wars is far worse than in our youth. Therefore, the big question today is not how we can destroy and kill, but how we can live here. "In 1945, when Abba Kovner's partisans and the resistance fighters came from Europe, they were feted at a kibbutz. Meir Yaari, a leader of the Hashomer Hatzair movement, told them: 'You taught us how to die, but please learn from us how to live.' So please, the government should teach us to live. It's constantly said that we sanctify life and [the Palestinians] believe in death. So please, teach us how to live here. We 14 know how to die. I have 30 friends buried in the ground. Kerem Shalom tried to teach people how to live here, not how to die. It didn't last, but at least we tried." A kibbutznik walking down a path at Kerem Shalom, 1976. Credit: From the book "Out of the Consensus."